Peaces of a Dreme
by Joyce LaKee
Summary: In the grand tradition of visitors to the Uncharted Desert Isle, one woman arrives on the storm tossed Minnow, instead.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. They were all created by people far more talented than me, long before I was even born.

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_There is a young woman, of unknown past, and unknowable future, who has been snatched from the hands of an unspeakable horror only to be sent on an impossible odyssey as life and death hang in the balance. She might be the favorite of Fortune, or perhaps, the plaything of the Fates._

"Peter!"

The young woman screamed as she was whirled into shadowy dark. She flailed and reached for something to grasp in the void but felt nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing. She panicked.

_Oh no. Not again!_

Peter could not save her now. She was utterly alone and at the mercy of forces carrying her on a frightening journey through time and space. Despite the certain futility of another attempt, she took a deep breath and opened her mouth to scream for him once more. It was no longer a request for help, but an expression of despair...

She choked on a mouthful of briny water!

The woman coughed and sputtered. Where she had been dry just a moment ago, she was soaked now, all the way through her frock and chemise. Wind and salt spray were blowing in her face, and her feet were slipping out from under her (_slipping? what was she standing on?_). Once more she flung her arms out, and this time she grabbed a wet, cold railing, but it wasn't enough to save her from falling. She lost her balance and nearly fell to the floor, when she felt two arms around her waist, puling her upright.

"Hey lady, get down below with the others!"

It was voice of a young man, yelling to be heard over the storm. Now she was being half-dragged, half-led through the dark, stormy night. Now she was being pushed through a door.

"Watch your step lady, and don't come up until the skipper says."

The door slammed, and she was indoors once more, but it was pitch dark. She circled her hands out until her palms touched the walls on either side and pushed one toe forward, feeling for the stairs.

There was a murmuring, a soft rustling from down below.

"Who's that? Who's there?"

It was the "others" the young sailor spoke of, the others on this boat. A flashlight shone in her eyes, blinding her, and she winced.

"You're not the Skipper, or Gilligan," said a voice from down below.

The woman shook her head, but before she could say anything, other voices piped up.

"Why, it's a girl!"

"How can that be? There were only five of us passengers on the boat. What is she doing here?"

"I dunno. Maybe she got swept _on_ board."

"Oh don't be absurd."

"Why does this even matter right now?"

"I'll tell you why this matters, we all paid for our tickets fair and square, and she just stows away."

The woman's stomach sank. _They think I'm a stowaway_. _What will they do with me?_

Before she could imagine any ghastly scenarios of terrible punishments for stowaways, another person spoke. "Oh, never mind that right now. Come down and sit, so you don't fall and hurt yourself."

"Only two more steps, sweetie, and the bunk to the right."

The light went off, it was pitch dark now, and she descended slowly. There was a whispered and heated quarrel between the man who called her a stowaway and another passenger.

"Gimme that flashlight, she's gonna fall and break her ankle."

A light went on, but not in her face this time. By the dim and wavering light, she slipped into the bunk, and flashlight went out again.

"Gotta save batteries, you know. No telling how long this storm will last."

She nodded into the dark, even though nobody could see her.

"What's your name, honey?"

The woman thought fast. She didn't dare ask where she was-that would lead to questions she had no idea how to answer. She also couldn't ask _when_ she was, lest she risk appearing insane. But they had flashlights here, and batteries. The bunk where she sat was comfortable despite the storm, and although there was a general smell of stale air and salt water, this cabin was airtight and dry This was no rickety wooden ship from days of yore. She had to be in the nineteen hundreds, at least.

She could safely use her nickname, "Vicky."

"Well, Miss Vicky, as soon as this storm is over, we're going to get to the bottom of all this."

"Thurston, really! This is neither the time or place."

"I realize that, Lovey. That's why we are waiting until we're back on dry land." And the two fell back to their whispered, heated quarrel.

"Here Vicky, wrap this around yourself." A soft folded blanket was placed on her lap.

"Thank you."

She shook it out, and stood just long enough to place it around her shoulders. Her head was light, she was feeling the effects of her journey, and the boat lurched. She sank back into the bunk, and despite the conversation around her, fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Hello and thank you for all your support and reviews and stuff-it's all bread and butter to the lowly fanfic writer. Shout out to reviewers-Amaris Moon, TereseLucy384, Womenreligiousfan, Cloudygumdrops, guest, absoloot fabulosity, Catherine Pugh

Disclaimer: I still don't own any of these characters. I threw them all together in a bag and shook them like so much shake-and-bake to see what would happen Muahaha.

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_The sun has arisen over a storm-ravaged boat drifting at sea-the same boat that has been the destination of a young woman alone on a frightening journey. The storm has passed, and the passengers have survived the night, only to face the uncertain dawn of a new day._

It was morning aboard the Minnow, and the hot sun was evaporating the rain and seawater from the deck. The dampness hadn't deterred the passengers from coming up topside to look out over the ocean-an ocean utterly devoid of landforms or other ships. They hadn't even seen so much as an airplane pass overhead. But it was a beautiful day, with a crystal blue sky and a few innocent fluffy white clouds in direct contrast to the tempest that raged over their heads not twelve hours before. The Skipper spread out his charts and was making notations with his one hand, peering at the compass in his other. The Professor and Gilligan watched.

"So what you are telling us, Skipper, is that all your electronic navigational equipment has failed, rendering our current location indeterminate?" The Professor asked.

The Skipper nodded, and opened his mouth to speak, but his first mate piped up.

"Yeah, and we don't know where we are, either."

"That's what he said, Gilligan" the Skipper growled, and as quick as anything, whipped off his cap and smacked his first mate over the head with it.

Gilligan, looking dismayed, took off his own hat to smooth it out, and heard a giggle. He turned to see Mary Ann covering her mouth. He was embarrassed that she saw him yelled at by the Skipper, but relaxed when he saw there was no mockery in her eyes, only gentle humor.

Ginger, who had been perched on the bench gazing out over the sea stood up and twirled in place. "What an adventure," she sighed. "This would make a fabulous movie."

"What would?" Mary Ann asked.

"This! All of it! Can't you just see it now? I could play myself, on a sightseeing trip, just like ours. John Wayne could play the Skipper, Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy could play Mr. and Mrs. Howell..." She nodded at the couple as they reclined at their leisure on the deck chairs.

"We approve dear. Oh, Thurston, did you hear that? A movie about us!" said Lovey.

But before Mr. Howell could answer, Gilligan came bounding over. "Yeah, and it could be really exciting, too, with pirates, or maybe a giant octopus that attacks the boat like this..._rawr rawr!_" He made menacing gestures with his hands curled into claws.

"Gilligan, octopodes don't make any noise."

"But they could in the movies, Professor."

"Oh Gilligan, I love it, and Cary Grant could play my leading man..." Ginger's eyes were shining.

"Wait a minute...Cary Grant...Ginger Grant. Are you two related?" Gilligan asked.

"No." Ginger was indignant. " He could hardly be my leading man if he were, now, could he?"

"Gilligan! Stop bothering the girls and get over here!"

"Coming, Skipper."

Mary Ann watched him leave, then turned back to Ginger. "Oh, who would play me?"

"I don't know, honey, Connie Francis, maybe?"

"I think I'm more the Brenda Lee type."

"Well, pick whoever you like," Ginger offered generously.

"Who should play Gilligan?" Mary Ann was enjoying the game hugely.

"How about Dean Martin?"

"He's more like Jerry Lewis," Mr. Howell muttered.

"Well, we can have fun imagining it all. I'm just happy to be breathing the fresh sea air after being cooped up in that tiny little cabin," Ginger smiled.

"Quite right-it's such a silly little cabin, hardly like our stateroom on the Queen Mary." Lovey remarked.

"Really, Captain, you ought to consider adding better accommodations," Mr. Howell called across the deck.

The Skipper's face turned red. "Well of course, Mr. Howell. How stupid of me. I'll get right on it. As soon as we get to _dry land!_"

"Well, here's no need to be so huffy about it."

Professor shook his head. "So you really have no idea where we are?"

"You know as much as I know," Skipper was grateful to talk to somebody with a little common sense. "We started from Honolulu," he pointed the tip of his pencil on the chart. "... And got blown off course. The clouds only cleared this morning, so I haven't been able to plot our position by the stars."

The Professor scratched his head, trying to think. "How about..."

"Oh and Captain, what _will_ you do about that blasted stowaway?"

"If I told you once, Mr Howell, I told you a thousand times. We have bigger problems on our hands than one harmless stowaway!"

GIGIGI

Vicky awoke drenched in sweat, rubbed her eyes and peered around her. The cabin was empty and bright, with sun shining in every porthole, gleaming off the chrome and the dull sheen of the panelling. She closed her eyes again and sighed-she had survived the night.

Shrugging off the blanket, Vicky stood up on weak, wobbly legs, and cocked her head to the steps. All the other passengers seemed to be upstairs on deck, and she could hear a lot of animated chatter. Although the thought of facing anybody scared her, she decided to go up and join them. There was no place to hide here, anyway, and if she were in trouble for stowing away, it would be better to face the consequences and get that unpleasantness done and over with. She had no money on her, and no identification, but maybe she could talk to the captain, offer to work off the debt, or if all else failed, simply throw herself on his mercy. While she was up there, she could also try to find out where they were.

With this heat? Probably some place in the tropics. She might even be in the Pacific Ocean! She glanced upstairs to make sure no one was coming, then with swift fingers, unbuttoned her frock and peeled it off her shoulders and stepped out of it. It was still damp from sea water and it had a funny odor and was growing stiff. She folded it clumsily and stuffed it into a wide drawer under her bunk. Her chemise was stuck to her in damp patches. She pulled it away from her skin and fanned the hem and the neck to cool herself. That made it a little more bearable, and she was still decently attired.

She looked around again at the cabin. Her guess from last night was right. The design and decor set the time period in the nineteen hundreds. The others spoke American English she easily recognized. And there, hanging on a hook across from her, was a dress in the style of the nineteen sixties. Still without her sea legs, Vicki stumbled to it and took the hem of the dress between her thumb and forefinger, smiling. Polyester. How long had it been since she felt genuine polyester? The frock she stuffed in the drawer was plain, ordinary Linsey-Wolsey, and the chemise she wore now was a rare and costly gift-real cotton, trimmed with convent-made lace, but definitely not from the sixties...

The nineteen sixties! She had friends in this time! Friends faraway, in Maine and New York, but still, maybe they could help her. Even if they were in the tropics, the telephone was invented, after all, and as soon as the boat landed, she could call her friends. Maybe they could even cable her the money to pay for this passage. And then the owner of the boat wouldn't be mad at her.

The boat lurched and rocked and she clapped hand over her mouth and ran to the little bathroom and was violently sick...

Afterward, she reached up to flush the toilet, then struggled to get to her feet, but her legs wouldn't bear her weight. On her knees, she opened the door. The room was still empty. No one had heard her.

She crawled across the floor to a little shelf where some magazines lay. The effort left her breathless, and she stopped for a moment to slow her fluttering heart before she swept the whole pile onto her lap.

She read the dates and blanched.

She was sent back too early! If these magazines were current, her friends in Maine hadn't met her yet. And if she tried to contact her friends in New York...she, Vicki, or another version of herself, was already in New York at this time. If that's how it worked. Did other-Vicky disappear when when the void brought her to this place? But who was other-Vicky, or earlier-Vicky or...what would happen if she called New York and _she_ answered her very own phone call...?

A mist passed before her eyes and she collapsed into a swoon.

Faint, buzzing voices surrounded her, and she felt two strong arms wrap around her and lift her up.

She tried to say something, but her voice came out in a little squeak.

"Lay her on the bunk," someone ordered.

She felt herself placed carefully on a bunk, her feet up on a cushion.

"She's burning up with fever-bring me a cold cloth."

_I'm not sick, I don't have a fever. I just travelled through time. Only, I wound up in the wrong time._

A cold cloth was placed on her forehead, and someone was wiping her arms with another damp cloth.

"I was in a movie once where I had brain fever," said a whispery voice.

"Ginger, there's no such thing as brain fever." That voice came from the man who placed her on the bunk.

"What she needs to do is sweat it out." Another masculine voice, one she didn't recognize, but who spoke with authority. "Bring the blanket."

She was covered with that hateful blanket again, and the heat was unbearable. She started to moan and thrash, trying to kick off the oppressive coverings. Someone was holding her hand now, patting it and saying "Hush, hush." Trying to soothe her.

"Whatever she's got, it better not be catching. We Howells are known for our delicate constitutions."

There were some outraged protests at this, but it grew far away in Vicky's mind and she sunk into a doze.


End file.
